


let’s scream poetry and catastrophe

by Manfedzku



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: -Ish, Accidental Euphemisms, Ed-level swearing, Foot fixation-mention, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Iambic Pentameter, Necrophilia-mention, Poetry Lessons, Professor Edward Elric, Sonnets, bonding over poetry and having poem discussions, guys i swear there is no actual nsfw acts or kinks or otherwise here oh god the tags, offscreen Brotherly Ed, phallic symbols, post-manga canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manfedzku/pseuds/Manfedzku
Summary: Learning about poetry under Edward Elric’s tutelage is both fun and frustrating. Or if Roy is to apply Ed’s lecture about ‘playing around with words':funstrating.In which, Roy is utterly defeated by his paperwork, and being taught poetry seems the way to go in breaking him out of this slump.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 146
Collections: Manfedzku Writes





	let’s scream poetry and catastrophe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentwalrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [hot girl bummer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674824) by [silentwalrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus/pseuds/silentwalrus). 



> Alternate title: ‘my beats are hot, and my rhymes are purer.’
> 
> Inspired by ‘Ed is bored and takes up a poetry class’ from silentwalrus’ fic [hot girl bummer](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/59628055?show_comments=true#main), because I’ve had a real great need for Ed teaching an equally burnt-out Mustang some poetry skillz haha. So thank you very much for letting me borrow that prompt and for letting me play in that particular fic’s sandbox! ;A; here's my humble offering
> 
> This fic also counts as a love-letter to my poetry classes, as well as an exposé of all the madness that goes on there. Full disclosure, some of the lines here are actual poems I’ve written for schoolwork that I’ve scrapped and recycled now for fanfic. **Yes, we make workshop comments that really sound cursed out-of-context.** Pick your fave idk
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta Merel, who complained to me about making her check my iambic pentameters and for making her sing a Moana song in the silence of her bedroom. <3 She’s pointed out that there’s probably a sonnet line here that’s deviated from the pattern, but I’m too tired to figure out another word rhyme with the right beat so I’m chalking it up to Ed’s country accent.

With one last forceful shake, the silver cap clatters and Roy empties the salt bottle. Sodium chloride pours all over the ashes that used to be his paperwork and gives new meaning to _add salt to taste_.

His utter defeat at the hands of the conspiring universe must’ve sounded Hawkeye’s General-Mustang-is-doomed alarm, because next thing he knows she’s entered with duplicate copies of the documents, surreptitiously eyeing the concoction on his desk before electing to plop down the files onto the office couch.

“Are you feeling any better now, sir?”

With a sigh, he keeps shaking the saltshaker anyway like his life depends on it, finding comfort in how the motion allows his hand some exercise. Maybe Hawkeye’s onto something that time he’s pitched his ‘seasoning therapy’ idea, when she’s suggested that he should maybe invest in stressballs instead. “I was hoping it would add some flavor to the text.”

There are pros and cons to being a general, and while his pyramid scheme for protecting people has largely expanded, it is but at the great cost of him becoming _even_ more of a desk jockey. The never-ending torrent of processed wood fiber drowns him with its sheer amount. It makes him miss the days when he is sent out to do fieldwork or catch some law-violating alchemists.

Hawkeye hums her non-sympathy at his plight. Roy is in fact surrounded by some of the most supportive people.

“Speaking of flavor,” she grabs a folder from the top of the paper pile and hands it over to him, “Edward dropped by earlier this morning, sir.”

Her giving him something that’s been there since early morning is Hawkeye-speak for _I’ve been withholding something from you that could serve as a picker-upper from this embarrassing slump, General sir...you sad, sad man._

That, or she’s trying for positive reinforcement, where she would’ve been faster at handing the little treat in had Roy been able to finish his work promptly.

Whatever the case, Roy reaches for the folder and groans as he flips through. A headache builds up like a flash revolt from inside his skull.

“Something interesting?” comes Hawkeye’s even voice.

“Edward’s latest set of sonnets for his hundred-poem suite.” He absently reaches for his pen. “You remember the time I recommended to him to take a poetry class when he was complaining about getting too bored with his alchemy coursework? He’s gone wild with it finally. The other day, he was reading some sonnets to me and getting feedback for his class project. Listen to this...” He clears his throat and starts to dramatically read the first lines. “ _Shall I compare thee to a bar of gold? / That's melted into 10k jewelry; / In alchemy, you are the cost of coal; / Thy only use is but to be shiny._ ”

He looks up and meets Hawkeye’s pokerface stare. “He’d chosen me to be his muse apparently.”

She doesn’t change expression. “I see. He’s certainly gotten more creative with his insults.” She tilts her head. “And they’re in meter as well.”

He wishes that she wouldn’t look so approving as she says that.

“It _can_ be quite annoying. _Especially_ when he reads them live and starts to sing-song his lines,” Roy grumbles. With a few quick strokes, he scribbles an A+ and a heart in the corner of the page.

Hawkeye watches him for a moment before she sighs. “General, perhaps you should treat accords **—** pacts and settlements that finally grant Amestris and her surrounding nations some peace after decades of war **—** the same amount of _excitement_.” A pause. “Or perhaps you simply like being roasted, sir.”

“Excitement?” Roy frowns. He does not actually like being roasted _too_ much, but he does give credit where credit is due. It’s part of why the rest of his team loved him so. He may have treated them to drinks a tad too many times for a job well done on spreading rumors about his supposed bed-hopping. “If the other higher-ups and diplomats were just as creative with their wordings, I’d be inclined to give it my immediate time and attention. But I’ve received _sixteen_ different variations of the same trade agreement that just could _not_ agree on the tariff. Frankly, it is insulting and unheard of.”

Hawkeye hums again as she reaches for the folder to take a look at Edward’s work herself. “General,” she says, eyes skimming a page. “Would you mind taking your own advice and enrolling in a poetry class?”

“Hm?” Roy leans back and crosses his arms, unsure if he has heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“Enroll,” she says again. “In a poetry class. Writing feedback on Edward’s work has made you use your pen properly for the first time in eight hours. If reading poetry interests you that much, I imagine that writing one would go just as well.” She snaps the folder close. “You need something else to motivate you... _besides_ changing the country,” she adds before Roy could point it out. “You appear to be a bit...drained, sir.”

Huh. “I’m not feeling _drained_ ,” he begins defending himself. “I’m just a little mind-numbed reading the same old legal terms, and when I go home to try enjoying my alchemy books they make me tired because I’ve practically memorized them all and **—**

Roy stops short as she raises her eyebrows. “Ah,” he gasps, realization setting in. “Perhaps...I might reconsider.”

Hawkeye tosses the folder back on the pile. “Edward happened to mention to me that he stays in the university library during Saturdays. You could ask him about sitting in, sir?”

“That’s in two days.” He glances at the calendar filled to the brim with appointments. “I’ll have to cancel my date with Delilah.”

Hawkeye nods. “A ‘library date with Edward’ it is then. In the meantime…” she deftly pulls out a document from the very bottom of the treaty tower without toppling the entire thing, “...Sir, please address the military cafeteria’s formal complaint about their dwindling stock of saltshakers.”

Roy turns his head at the hoard of empty saltshakers collecting dust in one corner of his office. “Right.”

* * *

That Saturday, he finds Edward Elric looking focused and peaceful while huddled behind a fortress of some obscure poet’s sonnet collections. Roy proceeds to rectify that by miming as if he’s about to grab a book from a stack and predictably, like a possessive dragon that hasn’t had its morning coffee, Ed seizes his arm in a clawlike hold, snarling and growling before he finally registers Roy’s person and lets his grip loosen.

“Oh, hey Mustang,” he greets brightly, as if he hasn’t been just about to chomp Roy’s hand off and spit it into the sewer canal outside moments prior. Roy’s already seen the biting part happen, but risking to lose an arm in attempting to ‘borrow’ a book from Ed’s pile is the only way nowadays to get his attention when he's absorbed in something he genuinely likes.

Actually, with the way Ed’s gaze is dangerously flitting between Roy’s hand and the books **—**

 **—** Okay, he decides he rather likes his hand. 

“Edward,” he says, discreetly retracting his limb. “The last time I saw you showing this much concentration while studying you were still trying to find a way to get your brother’s body back.”

“Poetry is no joke,” Ed rasps, eyes wide. His eyebags only serve to enhance his haunted look. “Poets can only _try_ poetry. It’s why is called ‘poet-try.’ _Poet._ _Try_. Poetry. Anyone who thinks otherwise s’a raving fool, a fucking clown, a spiritless husk of an animal. Mustang, it’s _never_ been clearer! The _errors_ of my _ways._ ” And then he proceeds to quietly sob into a thick book of haikus.

Ah fuck. Roy’s insides grow cold as he realizes that he’s recommended a _cult_ instead of a class. “Huh. Hmmm, on second thought, I think I won’t be learning poetry after all **—** ”

He quickly unpins Ed's project from underneath his arm and slides it back to its author when Ed snaps up from his micro-breakdown.

“What did you say?” he demands.

Roy, who’s been about to turn back, stops and shrugs. “I was about to ask if your poetry professor would allow a high-profile official to sit-in.”

“What, the Fuhrer got tired of doing child welfare services budget cuts and wants to do _line cuts_ now?”

Ah, he’s forgotten that Ed’s still fuming about Grumman’s decision of where to get funding for his projects from. Roy has opposed him as well on the matter and is looking for alternatives since, but their resources are running out and they could just not afford to put the country in debt at any cost. “No, not the Fuhrer,” he says. “Me.” 

“ _You_ wanna learn poetry?” Ed inquires further. “ _Why_?”

“Same as you I suppose. Mental stimulation?”

Ed nods empathetically and leans back in his seat. Roy appreciates that under all that piss and vinegar, _Ed_ sometimes just...gets it. 

“Yeah, she allows anyone to sit-in as long’s her reqs are fulfilled. You’d need a letter of recommendation from a student of hers first.”

“But you’re...a student?”

“My classes with Prof. Bee’s from one to two-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays weekly,” Ed informs, staring at Roy’s face. “Highly doubt your stamina could take running back and forth from hq to uni and back. If you were even to fit the class in your political schedule that is. _Plus_ once you start you cannot miss. Bee’s a good teacher and doesn’t gatekeep like the rest of ‘em ‘bout what’s poetry or nah. She’s actually helped me make a project outta my thermodynamics limerick. But she’s prickly about linear progression.”

Of course. Roy’s been banking on doing some casual poetry in his free time instead of following a syllabus, but if this is the case **—**

“Can’t be helped then.” Ed snorts as he looks away and flicks at the traces of salt and ashes on his drafts folder. “Guess I’ll just have to pass on what I’ve learned.”

Oh?

 _Oh_. He hasn’t expected that. “You’d do that for me?”

It’s Ed’s turn to shrug. “I could set up a more flexible schedule for ya. And ‘sides, you’ve been helping out on my project and figured gotta payback that somehow. Even though, y’know like, your comments really ain’t helping me out on what I’m trying to do.”

“Not helping you out?” He casts a net around in his mind hoping to catch if he’s accidentally made a hurtful remark. “But I haven’t been anything but supportive and helpful!”

“Exactly!” Ed’s hands soar in the air exasperatedly. “My project is that I’m _trying_ to insult you! You should feel _insulted_ , not leaving comments like, what’s it...‘A plus plus plus’ or ‘I really _love_ how you compared my moral conscience to a _deformed potato_.’”

“Well it was a good metaphor,” Roy says amicably.

Ed groans and buries his face into his palm. “Fuck you, stop that.”

Roy bites back a laugh. Revenge is sweet. “Next time, pick your brother as your muse then. I’m sure he’ll react exactly the way you want toward soliloquies about how much of an amazing, albeit quietly terrifying, little brother he is.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll definitely do something for Al,” Ed mumbles, dropping his hand. His expression looks like the result of being saturated with too much lotion due to how soft it’s suddenly become. “But like, once I do I’m gonna be taking my time with it and not use him as material for a throwaway school project.”

“Yep,” Roy says, having no counter-arguments to offer.

Ed whips his head around to face him. “Now as for _you_ , for your first assignment **—** ”

“Oh, we start now.”

“ **—** _Write me a diagnostic poem_. Don’t care if free verse or traditional form. Just so I can get a lay of your writing style.”

Roy nods dutifully. “The topic?”

“Anything. Uh, the moon, the stars, your toilet, feather duster...hell, even the box of whips and ropes beneath the trapdoor under your sink, whatever.”

“I do not **—** ”

“Look at the time!” Ed says, even though he hasn't even glanced at any timepiece. “Gotta read up about some epics and myths. See you next Saturday.”

Then he dives back into the world of pretty words and completely forgets about Roy within two-point-three seconds.

And that’s how Roy found himself dismissed. With homework and another meet-up next weekend. 

Briefly, he wonders what _exactly_ he has just sold his soul to.

* * *

Roy has failed to anticipate how much he’s going to be looking forward to it.

Almost immediately after going home, instead of reading proposals, he reads some store-bought poetry books out loud as he tries to get into a ‘waxing lyrical’ mindset, and spends the rest of the weekend doing so. On Monday workday, he’s gotten into the habit of listing subjects **—** ones that he thinks he could write a poem about **—** in the margins of his speech drafts. By Tuesday, he’s gotten so distracted thinking up a single line that Hawkeye threatens to call Ed and infinitely cancel their poetry appointments, which prompts Roy into finishing all of his paperwork before five, much to the shock of the rest of his team.

Thursday finds Roy staring blankly up at his ceiling. And really, he should stop procrastinating.

It’s not that he has no idea where to start. After all, he’s endured Ed’s rants ( _or_ gushing, which he’s beginning to think is one and the same) since the beginning of this semester, and he has since picked up a bit of the craft and some terminology here and there.

“ _So sonnets are like the equivalent of military locker room talk_ ,” Ed’s been saying when he hands over his project to him for the very first time, “ _Except that the ideal for the dick-measuring is more on the smaller side._ ” He snorts. “ _Would’ve gone for free verse instead of something that has structure like sonnets or traditional but uh, I write like my armpit without something to limit me apparently._ ”

Roy sits up and taps his pen on his notes, pondering over Ed’s explanation. He’s already thought of how strange that Ed’s agreed to writing with preset rules, but maybe it is just what Ed has needed: a challenge to work within the bounds he is given.

Meanwhile for him, most of Roy’s life has been built around structure and hierarchy. He never charges in without a solid plan and has got back-ups to his back-ups. He’s set goals and generally knows where or what he’ll end up in, and if those plans fail, he still has alternatives in place, like maybe investing in stocks.

The pen hovers above a fresh sheet of paper. Free verse is the way to go.

* * *

“A poem about necrophilia.” Ed rolls his eyes at him. “Figures.”

“Edward,” Roy manages carefully. Internally though, he is quite horrified. “What about my poem... _exactly_...is necrophilic?”

His original thought process has gone on like this. First, he’s aimed to write something related to fire without making it _about_ fire, so he’s listed all the things that could set or usually be set with fire, including _matchstick_ , _fireplace_ , _flint_ , _wood_ , _Hughes’ ass when he decides to pull those photos out one more time_ , _lightning_ , _his ignition gloves_ , _a lighter_ , _a lamp_ , before settling with a _candle_.

Then he thinks of associations with the candle. _Light_. _Grief and prayer. Birthdays. Funerals. Hope. Death. Romantic dinner date. Blessings. Wishes. Found. Heat._ (And _cold_ as well when the candlelight goes out, he supposes.) _Remorse. Redemption. Regret_ …

The end result should’ve been about a persona, with his hands clasped around a candle, begging for forgiveness but accepting that it will ultimately be denied from him. He’s even read it several times, trying to see if the image of the poem translates well, and then even has Fuery look at and approve it, because his subordinate’s obscure childhood just so happens to involve the guy taking poetry lessons and he’s been honest-to-goodness tutored by an actual _accomplished_ poet. 

Back to the present, Ed flutters Roy’s poem and starts telling Roy _exactly_ what about it is necrophilic.

“ _There’s a candle in my hands dripping/_ ” Ed reads some of the lines aloud, “ _wax between my fingers. I grip/ tighter until my palms hurt with cold/ and cinders_.” He blows air at his bangs. “Mustang, nothing’s more phallic and necrophilic than a _cold_ freakin’ _candle_ in _between_ your _palms_!”

Alright, now that Ed’s pointed it out, it _should’ve_ been quite obvious, especially to _Roy_ of all people. In hindsight, aside from Fuery (who tends to focus on the rhythm and sound of it), maybe he should’ve asked Havoc or Breda to check as well, as they would’ve likely spotted the necrophilia thing a mile away. But still…

“Edward, I really did not intend for it to be about making love to a corpse,” Roy says in his long-suffering voice, and then proceeds to explain his project.

Ed mulls over it and gives the poem another pass. “Huh, alright, I see it.” He scratches at his chin as he reads it once more, and Roy knows that he is silently doing workshop on what went wrong with the execution. “See, in poetry, anything that is long or tall can be mistaken for a phallic symbol. Which I think is bullshit but I can _not_ unsee it anymore. Ever heard of that yet?”

“I’ve...heard of phallic symbols but not through the poetic lens. I tend to favor trashy romance novel levels of prosaic descriptions about the throbbing largeness of a **—** ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed cuts in. “Can’t believe I’ve never complained about phallic symbolism to you. To be fair, I haven’t really written a poem with one yet, so it’s possible that I haven’t talked about it at length. Surprising, I know.”

Not that surprising to Roy actually, because if Ed is going to write about the phallus, he’s not going to hide it behind symbolisms. Ed _will_ flat out call it in its crudest form.

“So here’s another thing,” Ed says. “Even if this ain’t a sex poem, your candle imagery sucks.”

“Wow,” Roy sounds.

Without glancing up, Ed waves at him to be quiet. “Shhhh, don’t talk when I’m giving feedback. Or make mouth noises. We have this thing where we kill the author before starting our poetry workshops.”

“Kill...the author?” Roy says faintly.

“Yeah, we stab in turns and everything.”

Roy is growing more and more convinced that he’s really pushed Ed into joining a cult. _God_ , how shall he explain this to poor Alphonse?

“...And then we resurrect the author after an hour. Is so the author won’t be able to turn their own workshop session into some kind of court defense.” Ed rubs at his nose. “Anyway, the reason your candle isn’t working is ‘cause you mentioned it to be ‘dripping.’ So candle’s hot and the wax is squishable. Why’s it suddenly cold within the next two lines? Don’t answer that.”

Roy hasn’t been planning to.

“So the only reason I could think of s’that the candle wax cooled within the persona’s hold after a period of time. _Which_ wasn’t well-established. Though the ‘candle dripping’ should definitely leave burns. And like, the visual of the wax melding with the fingers has potential. That’s my reading on the dramatic situation anyway. But uh, the word ‘cinders’ is really throwin’ me. Really looks out of place. Strike it off and find somethin’ else to rhyme with fingers.”

Roy takes all of these notes down. As he listens to Ed remark on his word choice and delineation, he watches him as well, watches as those gold eyes narrow whenever he’s trying to dissect what Roy means with a particular line, watches as he laughs when he catches another phallic symbol that Roy hasn’t meant to put in either. They move on to the rest of the strophes and before they realize it, their first workshop session is over and Ed has managed to convince Roy to change the persona’s hand placement so it looks less like a ‘candlejob’ and more like an ‘imploring for mercy’ position.

“So your writing style is what Prof. Bee would probs call as ‘hypersexual' in nature,” Ed informs him. “If those accidental dicks were anything to go by. Can’t fault you for that anyway. I’d say weaponize that and up the raunch.”

The words _accidental_ and _dicks_ are an experience to hear in the same sentence. “While I’m glad you find that a strength of mine, Edward, I’d rather stick to something a lot less like pornographic poetry.”

“Too bad, ‘cause sad poems don’t suit you either.”

“What would you suggest then?”

Ed scrunches up his nose. “I don’t know. What else you got?”

“Hmmm.” Roy twirls his pen as he tries to think of an answer. “I’ve had some experience with sappy love poems.” Mostly as a method of passing secret messages to his dates, but it counts. “Not your speed I imagine.”

“Yeah? How sappy we talkin’?”

“Sickly sweet sap,” Roy replies.

“Sure,” is the answer that Ed surprises Roy with. “I can work with sap.”

* * *

Learning about poetry under Edward Elric’s tutelage is both fun and frustrating. Or if Roy is to apply Ed’s lecture about ‘playing around with words:’ _funstrating_.

After his first poetry workshop, he and Ed fall into a kind of routine wherein Ed would give him prompts and recommend readings, to which Roy is tasked to respond to. With every session, Ed would become more and more relentless with his comments, like he’s decided that the kiddie gloves he’s been handling Roy with at the start are off after that just one test drive.

_During their second session_...

“I like this line. The rest could go to the trash.”

“That’s a 20-line poem, Edward.”

“One line poem now.”

_Third session..._

“ _Waves lapping at his toes,/ the arch of his soles molding hills from the sand/ the storm’s afoot_ ….Gosh, Mustang. There’s an _awful lot_ of focus on the feet, huh?”

“...In retrospect, that might be why Lieutenants Breda and Havoc were wiping tears from their eyes the other day.”

“Yeah, definitely not because you’ve tugged at their heartsrings or some shit. Good news though! No unintentional phallic symbols this time.”

“A cause to celebrate.”

“By the way, have you ever been to a beach, Mustang?”

“No, why?”

“Because at the beach when there’s a storm, I guarantee you the waves aren’t just gonna gently lick at your dainty little feet. _Tidal surges_ are gonna sweep you off so you’re never to be seen again.”

_Fourth session…_

“You have gotta find more ways to describe my eyes other than these rapidly aging, gold-related cliches.”

“I thought _lakes like liquid sunrise_ is pretty fresh and original, Edward.”

“Psh. Nah, I’ve heard it all. When Prof. Bee’s assigned this same assignment of ‘write a positive poem about a classmate’s facial body part,’ every single one of them chose to feature my eyes, like, what the fuckin’ hell? There’re so many interesting and beautiful things to feature like this one girl’s tooth gap that adds layers to her lovely smile, and this one guy’s numerous moles like a...a cluster of _galaxies_.”

“Aww.”

“Shut up. So one entire week is just the class waxing poetic about my quote ‘ _24-karat orbs_ ’ unquote. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or ashamed. So I wrote back poems for all of them because what. The fuck. And then now you as well!”

“I am quite sure they simply think that gold eyes are neat.”

“Neat enough that some of ‘em want to _steal_ it apparently. Well, they can have it but only after I’m done using them.”

_Fifth session..._

“ _Eyes like a clarity of stars_. What’s this a fuckin’ weather report?”

* * *

For their sixth session, they have had a little change of roles, with Ed once again presenting to him a new set of sonnets for his project.

“ _My Colonel's eyes are nothing like a star/ His skin is tad more pasty than the glue/ If humble, why then up his ass a bar…_ ”

“General.”

“Huh, what?”

“Is there a lapse in your memory? Because I think you’re forgetting that I’m no longer a colonel, Edward.”

“....Fucking _seriously_ . Of all the **—**! _That’s_ what you take offense to?! Oh my god, bastard.”

* * *

On their ninth meeting, Roy arrives early in the library and comes upon a scene of Ed surrounded by his peers, having a little workshop session of their own. They don’t even seem to notice him, and he decides not to intrude, opting to stay behind one of the bookshelves in the meantime. He can’t help himself though and decides to have a peek from between two encyclopedias.

Ed is holding up a piece of paper, presumably one of his works. “ _Another Answer for the Sphinx_ ,” he reads like a title. “ _Test Thebes with a question/ and acquire no answer/ it can’t possibly understand._ ” A pause. “ _Before darkness pounces/ the men shrug, only becoming aware/ of their composition/ when teeth pierce skin and crunch femur._ ”

Ed reads a bit more and makes for his pen and notebook, looking expectantly at his classmates.

“What is the ‘ _it_ ’ in the third line?” Roy hears from a girl whom he sees has a gap between her front teeth. She is initially hunched over but gains confidence as she speaks. “What does the ‘it’ refer to? The author should define what is ‘it’ because from this perspective, we are not given a clear image of ‘it’ yet?”

There is a chorus of quiet agreements while Ed scribbles her comments down.

Another classmate **—** a guy with several beauty marks dotting his face **—** raises his hand. “Right, so I think that the ‘it’ is expanded upon in the second part of the poem, and that is where we are supposed to find out what the answer to the sphinx’s riddle means? I’m thinking it would be better if the ‘it’ is defined early on and then the second part would make us realize ‘Oh! That’s the answer.’”

“He wasn’t like that at the start of the year,” a voice says from behind Roy. He jumps and twists around, coming to face a woman with a bob haircut. Crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes emphasize her silent mirth.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Roy starts, but the woman waves him off.

“Nothing to apologize for, General Mustang. I am simply reporting Mr. Elric’s endeavours in my poetry class.”

After taking a moment to process the statement, Roy offers his hand. “You must be Professor Bee. Pleased to meet you.”

“Just as well,” says Bee, shaking his hand graciously. “Back to Mr. Elric. When he first enrolled in my class, I must admit that I was a bit baffled that a science major would willingly take something as ‘useless’ as poetry. I was even afraid he would lash out during our workshop sessions, perhaps of preconceived notions, but he would take on even the harshest of my comments and he listens to his classmates’ as well. He participates actively, although even I couldn’t get him to shake off the too much cussing.”

“Edward Elric does not discriminate on what counts as knowledge or not,” Roy relays, carefully watching her face for a reaction. “Plus, he holds you in high regard.”

And react she does. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that other people aren’t as well-versed in translating his former subordinate’s language of affection. Bee blinks thrice like she couldn’t believe it, and if that doesn’t say all about Ed.

“The fact that he listens to you is a very good indicator,” Roy continues.

“Oh.” Bee glances away briefly. “Patience is key. His projects are usually directionless, but it doesn’t take much to find the potential in them. We usually provide several avenues he could take, and I’m satisfied that he almost always finds his way in the end.”

“He does,” Roy agrees.

“Has he already roped you into his ‘Poetry for a Cause’ project, General?”

Roy raises an eyebrow. “Hm, I’m sorry? ‘Poetry for a Cause?’”

“Ah, so he hasn’t yet.” She smiles as she steps back, a slight indication that she’ll be headed her way soon. “It’s his charity project. Earnings will go into saving the Warren Peace Orphanage from being demolished.”

A child welfare-related charity project then. “Interesting. I’ll be sure to ask. Good to meet you, Professor.”

* * *

> **Lab safety**
> 
> We are two masses of atoms, dressed in white coats,
> 
> on either side of an equal sign in a balanced equation
> 
> solved through a process of trial and error. I ask you to take
> 
> me as your lab partner. Our goggles fogged. Our smiles
> 
> behind facemasks. I vow to bleach our workspaces clean,
> 
> if you promise to take care of washing the glassware. When
> 
> fires burn through our clothes, let us stand naked, no shame
> 
> under an emergency shower. We conduct
> 
> experiments; keep each other on our toes with every
> 
> educated guess. Our atoms are at home. We have
> 
> become reactants, making products, a product that I
> 
> hope will never split apart

“Personally I think this revision is a lot better than your last one.” Ed presses two fingers against his forehead. “‘ _Lab safety_ ’ as in ‘love safety,’ huh? Still too sappy for my taste. But that’s just me.” He hands it back to Roy. “Good job, Mustang. You graduated poetry under Profmetal Alchemist. What an achievement.”

Roy snorts. “You know you _could_ be a poetry professor.”

“And replace Prof. Bee? Nah, probably not.” Ed picks at the corner of an alchemy textbook. “Althooough, if ever I were to be like, an alchemy professor, I’m thinking of requiring poetry as a prerequisite. Shit’s useful for practice before starting on decoding alchemic texts.”

Roy hums and stands up from his seat beside Ed’s, starts on gathering his things. “I’ll be looking forward to that. How are your sonnets by the way?”

“Arrrrgh. Still working on it.” A mischievous twinkle lights up Ed’s eyes. “Oh yeah, still shaking those saltshakers out of boredom?”

Roy freezes. “How did you **—**? Hawkeye,” he answers himself. “Hawkeye put you up with ‘art therapy-ing’ me.”

“Took you long enough to realize.” Ed beams wide. “I haven’t heard her complain about paperwork backlog in weeks though. It worked then, didn’t it?”

“Y-yeah,” Roy says, not wanting to admit that while he _has_ been working like a madman in scribbling signatures and getting everything done on time, the only reason he’s been able to is because Hawkeye won’t stop holding over his head the threat of putting an end to his poetic escapades. Then again, Roy supposes that writing poems does make a good refresher and enables him to work for longer on boringly-worded trade agreements. “Yeah, it did. Thank you, Edward.”

“Nah, thank _you_ .” Ed reaches across the table and plops a folder in front of him. “I’ve got a title for my suite now: _The Colonel’s New Clothes_. Geddit? ‘Cause you wear my insults and they make you feel naked.”

Roy stares, blank-eyed. “Make that _The_ _General’s_ _New Clothes_ , Edward. I’m insulted.”

“There you go!” Ed crows triumphantly. “The perfect reaction. Finally!”

.

.

.

.

.

.

“my beloved hidden tattoo. _it is something i wish i could show./ but i must behave or else/ the hive minds would bumble/ about what is none of their business...._ ”

“Title needs a little bit more tweaking still, but other than that it’s good. The imagery slaps. Nice use of the lowercase ‘i.’”

Riza hums as she crosses out a word from her title. “How’re you doing, Ed?”

“Doing fine, I guess.” Ed straightens up from his lounging position on her couch whilst eyeing the headline of the newspaper in his hands. “Mustang’s ‘ _Poetry against Orphanage Catastrophes_ ,’ huh? P.O.P?”

“I wonder who gave him that idea.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to him? How’s this even gonna work on such a nationwide scale?”

“General Mustang had submitted a rather extensive outline for it. We’ll see its execution for it soon. Hopefully, it will ease the blow on the child welfare service budget cuts.”

“Ha! Maybe I could drop a hint or two to give the Arts Department more funding.” 

“The General is very easily manipulated,” Riza acknowledges. After going through her poem once more, she pockets her draft.

Conspiring aside, Riza briefly wonders if Mustang will ever catch on that she and Ed are actually the ones who are running his country.

**Author's Note:**

> Next on Edward and Mustang bonding series: Ed asks Roy to beta his slashfic


End file.
